Integrity
by Syrinx
Summary: Their lives have taken strange turns, but they never figured they'd wind up standing side by side. Brad and Ashleigh. post-Cindy's Honor.


Integrity  
by Syrinx

Summary: Their lives have taken strange turns, but they never figured they'd wind up standing side by side.  
Disclaimer: All rights to the Thoroughbred series belong to Joanna Campbell and Harper Collins.

There's a fresh, April breeze today. It's the kind that smells like ozone and drags storms along in its wake; makes everything cool and crisp for three days before the humidity, which arrives early in the year like usual, takes over again. It's momentarily pleasing, to feel that cool air hit my bare arms, before it becomes uncomfortable.

That's how most of my life is these days anyway, so I'm used to it. I stand in the clubhouse at Keeneland, watch the breeze play with the American flag that's stationed in the center of the infield, and wait for the storm to roll in. It's slow in getting here, which is a glimmer of hope for Honor, who hates the rain and despises the mud.

She's out there in the starting chute, standing unusually calm as the other mares load before her. Tommy's hunched on her back, the gold and green silks for Townsend Acres shimmering just before the clouds take over the sun and inch closer to the track. There's a distant rumble of thunder, and from so far away I can see Honor tense, her ears flicking back.

"Just had to happen now," I hear a disgusted voice next to me, and I turn my head ever so slightly to acknowledge it without speaking.

The filly moves forward into the gate, bangs her hindquarters against the metal chute as Tommy settles himself for the break, and then the gate doors open. Honor jumps out onto the track, her red bay body digging down and shoving forward with the other six fillies in the race. She gains good position in fourth, two wide as they run down the backstretch. Switching leads in the turn, Tommy puts her into motion, and the two go cruising to the front.

By the quarter mile pole, Honor is in front and drawing away, reaching the wire to win by three and a half lengths under a hand ride. It's textbook perfection for a Grade III, seven-furlong race. A part of me sparks with pride over a job well done. The other part of me wants to squirm out from under the hand that's clapped enthusiastically around my shoulder.

"Let's head to meet them, Griffen," I'm told as Brad heads out of the owner's box and waits for me just outside of it. I motion for him to wait a moment and he nods, watching me without emotion as I reach down to Christina, who's been standing on my dress shoes, and lift her up to settle on my hip.

"Lead the way," I say, and he does just that, clearing the path as I walk close behind him down to the track, where Honor comes jogging up to meet us with a dirt splattered Tommy grinning ear to ear.

"Couldn't have been an easier trip," he says down to us as we position for the photo. The filly snorts and Christina giggles as she reaches for Honor's nose. Amazingly, Honor doesn't tug away as soon as Christina's little hand pats her dark muzzle, again confirming that Christina's been a horsewoman since she was three.

The photo snaps and I want to get a look at Honor's legs before she's led off, but my only helpers are non-existent. I often fail to remember that. It's always hard to remember these things for some reason, as if I'd gone so long taking them for granted that I'm always shocked to discover they really aren't there anymore. Samantha is off in Ireland, married and blazing a new path. Cindy jumped off into the deep end, accompanying Champion off in Dubai. Ian's preparing Integrity for the Wood Memorial with Mike, and Beth has her own concerns. It's Honor and me today, with Christina on my hip.

"I'll take her," I hear that voice again, and look back at Brad with an expression I know must come off as aghast. That sets him to laughing, and he motions to me to hand my daughter over into his arms. I pause, considering what he's asking.

"Ash, you want to check the filly. If you want to risk getting the kid's head kicked in, that's your call," he says, the laughter gone. "Hand her over."

With a look at Honor and back at Brad, I land a kiss on Christina's cheek and give her up. Christina climbs up into Brad's arms, her little white sundress riffling in the breeze as she grips to his broad shoulders through his charcoal suit. Brad gives her a cheerful smile and Christina smiles back, which momentarily derails me before I remember where I am.

The filly's legs feel fine. Honor huffs at the attention and shakes herself as soon as Len pours water over her steaming back. Seven furlongs must have been the perfect distance for Honor's five-year-old debut, and she looks no worse for wear. My inspection complete, I turn from the horse to my daughter, who's singing along to "Ba Ba Black Sheep" with Brad.

Briefly, I feel the need to pinch myself. Brad singing a children's song with a four-year-old does not qualify as normal, and my face must be broadcasting that loud and clear because when he looks up and sees me he starts laughing. Christina, caught up in mimicking Brad, does the same.

"Okay," I say after startling myself out of this surreal image. "I think I can take her back now."

"You sure about that?" he asks. "It's a long trek back to the shedrow."

"I'm pretty sure," I answer, unsure of how I could possibly wrestle Christina away from Brad. Who was I kidding? It wasn't like I couldn't trust Brad to carry a toddler a quarter of a mile. I don't retract my statement, however, so Brad hands her back to me and Christina pouts. Literally pouts, and I think my heart might break.

"Come on, sweetie," I tell her, trying hard to appear upbeat. "Want to see Honor before we take a nap?"

I get a reluctant nod in response, and with a desperate look toward Brad we head off.

Sleeping doesn't come easy anymore, and I find myself yet again sitting in front of the television watching the Late Show with little interest. Christina is dead asleep upstairs, and all the lights are off save the luminous blue glow of the television set. There were no phone calls tonight, not even considering Honor's win in the Vinery Madison Stakes earlier this afternoon.

The thought crosses my mind that perhaps the filly's race had simply been forgotten. With Integrity preparing for the Wood Memorial as the second betting choice, a little seven-furlong race at Keeneland could be easily forgotten, but it had never happened before. Mike had never been so forgetful before.

Briefly I consider other options and get stuck on thinking that perhaps I had been ignored. The thought makes my stomach turn over and for a second I refuse the notion. Fine, so I've only seen Mike twice since January. The business of running a small farm with active racing strings in three states means sacrifices must be made, and now as a mother I had Christina to anchor me at Whitebrook. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell I could up and gallivant around the country like I used to, and before Christina I'd stay away from Kentucky for weeks at a time. That hadn't been unusual.

This didn't get down to explaining away being ignored, and I slump a little lower in the sofa with what I know is a petulant frown on my face. It was ridiculous, and to prove it I reach over and pick the cordless up off of the coffee table. I punch in Mike's number and listen to the ringing tone five times before the voicemail picks up. With a sigh, I find something to say.

"Mike, hi. I wanted to check in and see about Integrity. I know he runs tomorrow and I wish you guys all the luck up there. Honor won her race down here; she just cruised, it was so impressive. Christina's great, farm's great, I'm great. Please call when you've got the time. Miss you. Bye."

I punch the end button and toss the phone to the end of the sofa, disgusted by myself. Out of sight, out of mind, I think, but try not to feel bitter. It's so easy to remove yourself from responsibility, and here I am trying to make it easier by pretending.

I get up and turn off the television, standing quietly in the dark for a moment, not even thinking about going to bed. I'm restless, my legs want to move, and my body's aching to do something, anything. Instead I sit back down. Then the phone rings.

I jump and answer it, asking hello with a tone in my voice that makes me want to cringe, it sounds so desperate.

"Ashleigh, it's Jeff," answers the voice of my broodmare manager, and I instantly tense. "Princess is down. It looks like we'll have a foal on the ground in the next half hour."

"I'll be right there," I say, and hang up without another word.

I remember exactly two things before I rush from the house and run down to broodmare barn. The first was to wake up Maureen, profusely apologize, and demand that she sit in my living room in case Christina wakes up. The second is to snatch my cell phone from the kitchen table before I'm out the door.

The grass is slick under my feet from the thunderstorms earlier in the evening, and I nearly fall flat on my ass on my way to the barn. Fortunately I'm lucky enough to keep my feet underneath me and I arrive at my destination flushed, but otherwise injury free. Jeff is standing in the aisle of the broodmare barn, his attention on Princess. He doesn't look at me when I approach, so I stop next to him and watch the mare labor in the straw.

"How are things so far?" I ask in a small voice that I don't entirely trust not to betray me.

"She's pulling through," Jeff says, although I can hear the concern all throughout his answer. It was understandable; Princess hasn't successfully delivered a foal since Honor.

I watch quietly as Princess goes through the motions, her body quivering with contractions as she gently lowers herself to the ground. The birth is easy, and before long two little hooves and a nose appear, pushing into the straw as the baby's body slowly slides into the world. It feels serene, and I almost feel a little cheated that I never could have experienced it, although I know at the same time the word "serene" could not have been applied to natural childbirth and me.

Once the foal's shoulders emerge the rest of the baby's body tumbles out onto the straw, and Jeff is quick to act. I watch, although I don't want to. In the pit of my stomach I already know what kind of news he's going to come back with.

"Blue," I hear, and I shut my eyes.

The baby looks like Princess, with a white snip on its nose and four white socks. Its eyes are closed, its wet body immobile in the straw. Princess lurches to her feet and turns to inspect her baby, her dark brown eyes wide with wonder and her ears pricked with interest. She nudges the foal's shoulder with her nose and it's more than I can take.

With a shaky breath I leave the scene, frantic to get away. I vaguely hear Jeff say that he'll be in the office waiting it out, but by the end of his sentence I'm out of the barn entirely and standing in the empty gravel lot outside, trying not to hyperventilate.

The night air is cold, and the cotton tank top and pants I'm wearing don't offer much resistance. I can't make myself go back inside and sit in the office; I can't be that close. I can't go back up to the house; I can't be that far away. Then suddenly the knowledge that I can't decide between the two has my eyes spiked with tears, and I'm letting out a frustrated sob into my bare hands.

Then I remember the cell phone I'd slipped into my pocket before leaving, and hastily grab it like it's a lifeline. When I peer at the glowing face of the phone I can't think of who to call. Mike isn't answering, Samantha and Cindy are worlds away and I couldn't distress them with the kind of call I'm going to make. I pace, I stare at the phone, and then, in what I recognize as a poor decision before I do it, I speed dial Brad.

In one ring he answers.

"Griffen?" he asks, sounding exhausted and irritable.

"You have to come here," I say, fully aware that I sound belligerent.

"I have to come where?" he asks.

"Here!" I demand, as though he doesn't know where "here" is. He knows damn well.

"What's going on, Ashleigh?" Brad asks, his tone changing, becoming concerned.

"Princess foaled tonight," I say. "Just now, actually. The thing is…"

"Ashleigh," he says, breaking in.

"It's stillborn, and," I gasp out, trying not to cry and failing miserably.

"Christ," he mutters.

"I don't think I can…" I trail off, not knowing what to say. "I don't know who to tell. It's…"

"Ashleigh," he says, suddenly sounding very loud. I blink and stop pacing. "You stay where you are. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"But," I start to say, "Townsend Acres is further than…"

Then the phone clicks dead in my ear.

I'm sitting on the porch of the farmhouse when he speeds up the gravel driveway. The sparkling new car pulls up next to my older sedan and he's out of the car a split second after he kills the engine.

I look at him balefully as he climbs the steps and stops in front of me. Without a word he reaches down and pries the cell phone out of my death grip. I see him turn it off and I can't come up with the motivation to tell him he has no right to handle my phone like that. Instead I just inhale shakily and turn away from him, looking out at the farm as he sits down next to me.  
A minute goes by without either of us speaking, and I can already start to feel how horrible my mistake is. I'm starting to think I should apologize and let him go home when he starts talking.

"I never really offered any condolences about what happened with the baby," he said, and I bristle immediately.

"Don't, Brad," I say, shaking my head.

"I mean this, Ash," he says, looking at me hard, as if he's fighting the impulse to tell me to shut up so he can talk. "I should have visited or sent flowers or something polite, at least. I didn't say a word."

"It wasn't necessary," I argue. "Believe me, I didn't need more sympathy. I could only take so much."

He nods, seeming content with that. "Princess is healthy?" he asks, and at the mention of the mare I can already feel the tiny little pinpricks of tears in my eyes again.

"I think so," I say, hiding a shudder. "I don't know really, I couldn't stay. Jeff is handling it, and I trust him to look after her. I just couldn't do it."

"I understand," he says, looking at me quietly now, and it's so pitiful I want to burst.

"Damn it, Brad," I groan. "Stop it. Just don't sit there and pretend to be okay with all my decisions right now. I'm not even okay with my decisions right now. I feel like I'm going crazy and everyone's just letting it happen. Like, everyone's standing around saying, 'There's Ashleigh running off the cliff, isn't that nice?' It makes me want to scream."

"So you'd rather me tell you that you're not allowed to be upset over Princess and a stillborn foal? Ash, I'd be pissed with you if you'd stayed there and interfered. That mare needs time to process what happened and not have you lingering around making it worse. I'm glad you ran off."

"I'm not," I say. "I just completely freaked out."

"You're overworked," Brad grumbles under his breath. "No wonder."

"Excuse me?" I ask, irritated again. "What exactly do you know of my situation?"

"Do you want me to say everything or nothing, Ashleigh?" Brad asks. "What would work for you?"

"Don't be flippant with me," I say, suddenly itching to be rid of him. "We both know you don't know anything about me."

"Right," Brad laughs. "Like I don't have eyes and can't see that no one is here. Were you thinking of hiring staff to replace the great mass exodus of Whitebrook Farm, or were you going to shoulder all of the responsibility onto yourself?"

"I am fine, Brad," I argue loudly enough that I know Maureen must be wincing inside the house. "I am totally fine."

"Then you're calling me in the dead of night because?"

"Screw you, Townsend," I reply.

"Great, Ash," he smiles. "If this is how you act the next time I come running to the rescue, do us both a favor and take my number off your phone. I'm not going to play the surrogate husband in Mike's absence, okay?"

At that, I really can't deny that I have the very sharp urge to slap him. Silence stretches between us and for a long moment I consider Brad Townsend, not knowing quite what to think, as what he said hangs there to be argued over.

Brad had always been a force to be reckoned with since I'd known him. We'd never gotten along, never had any kind words for each other, and had been touted as the very meaning of arch rivals by anyone and everyone who'd had the unlucky chance to witness our disagreements. What he's just said would almost be laughable if it didn't smack a little of truth. Since Mike took Integrity to Aqueduct, things had been drastically different. Only now were the truths of the situation being laid bare.

"Forget it," Brad says, waving the whole thing off and standing up, handing me my cell phone. "Forget I said anything. Forget I was here. I'll come by tomorrow to look at Princess, and we can talk about what to do then when you've had some sleep and can think clearly."

"I can't sleep," I say, suddenly feeling frantic to have him stay. Brad looks down at me in confusion.

"What?"

"I can't sleep," I repeat. "It's impossible, I just can't."

With a sigh, Brad sits back down. Then he takes a look at me and shrugs off his leather coat, handing it to me.

"I'm not cold," I say.

"Take it," he says. "It's just like you to be sitting in the cold in pajamas and say you're not cold. Just take it."

Without argument, I take the coat and slip it on, feeling impossibly small inside it. Instantly I'm much warmer, and I manage to relax a little. I let out a sigh, and close my eyes.

"How's Integrity doing, anyway?" Brad asks, and I shrug.

"Fine," I reply. "I've heard he's right on track. I'm looking forward to tomorrow. How's Townsend Rex?"

"Shipping out of California tomorrow for Louisville," he says. I nod, and let silence descend again.

After several seconds of listening to the quiet night, I apologize.

"You don't need to," he says.

"I do," I insist. "I panicked, and I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Not much of a bother these days," he says, and I don't push. Part of me never wants to know too much about him, as if knowing as much as he does would somehow break all boundaries.

"I still shouldn't have called," I tell him.

"Panicking is okay, Ash," he says, leaning back on his elbows and looking at me. I settle against the railing and don't quite know what to say. Stepping into a civil conversation just never seems to work right with Brad. Screaming seems to work much better. We seem to communicate so well that way.

"What are you smiling at?" he asks, and I jump, as if my thoughts have been found out.

"Nothing," I lie, then think of something to comment on. "Christina seems to like you."

"I have a way with kids," he smiles, and I laugh at that.

"Genuine laughter," he remarks, "have I heard that from you before?"

"I'm betting not," I say, quieting.

The conversation drops again, coming to an uncomfortable silence. It's so still out here I can practically hear the droplets of water drip off the railing and onto the porch. I shift a little on the step, the wood becoming painful to sit on. Brad glances over at me, but says nothing about my shimmying to gain a better position. Instead he says something completely out of right field, and it makes me forget the hard wooden step I'm perched on top of.

"Have you been keeping tabs on Champion?" he asks, and I literally don't know what to say.

The simple truth is that no, I can't say that I have even thought to keep tabs on Champion. Cindy's with him, and that's all the information I really need to know. I'm sure she would tell me immediately if something were concerning her, but even then it's out of my hands. The stallion was sold months ago, and while sometimes I think it was a hasty decision, I can't allow myself to consider that it might have been the wrong one.

"Why do you ask?" I say, seeing if I can somehow hedge around the topic.

Brad looks at me as if he really can't understand what I'm asking him. "Because he was ours, Ashleigh. He was Wonder's. That's why."

I shrug, pretending what he's just said doesn't bother me. "Don't tell me you had no hand in deciding to sell him," I say. "Townsend Acres didn't have to say yes to Habib's offer; you could have kept him after I sold my share in him to your father."

"Well, there's your answer, Ashleigh," he says, looking away from me to stare darkly into the night. "You sold your interest to my father, who in turn sold the stallion to Dubai. There's still a ruling hierarchy to Townsend Acres, Griffen."

I don't like the answer. It was too easy. Had it been that easy? It was a simple matter of one phone call and Champion was no longer mine. I'd given him up, and it had never even been a question of money. It had been a question of how fast he could be out of sight. Mike had been especially persistent, dealing with all the paperwork while I was still in the hospital. By the time I'd arrived back home Champion had been off the farm for the better part of a day, and I never batted an eye in response to his absence. Champion was simply gone, and the only reminder that he'd been there were the remaining trophies, his copper nameplate, and Cindy. Within a few weeks, all those reminders had vanished as well.

"Do you miss him at all?" he asks, and I shiver in response. I hate this, and so I fire a question back at him in reply.

"Do you have a point in asking me all these things about Champion, or are you just trying to make me uncomfortable?" I ask, sounding more defensive than I'd like.

"I'm just curious, I guess," he shrugs, his reaction is completely unlike what I was expecting. "It was a shock to just about everyone that you sold him."

"Well, I think I'm allowed some rapid decisions after what happened, don't you?" I ask, although it's not at all a question.

"Sure, Griffen," he says. "But don't be too offended when I say that your immediate decision upon a miscarriage was to throw away everything you'd planned for the future of your stud program is a little hard to swallow."

"Champion wasn't the be all and end all of my plans for Whitebrook's stud program, Brad," I defend, annoyed that I'm hearing it all again. Of course the decision to sell Champion hadn't been taken well by the industry and the media, and Clay's decision to ship him to Dubai had been met with sheer outrage from fans. I'm still receiving angry letters of protest, some demanding me to practically turn back time.

"Because a Triple Crown winner wasn't going to be a phenomenal draw," Brad remarks sarcastically.

"Come on, Brad," I say, "like the money from his sale hasn't helped out Townsend Acres immensely."

"It has," Brad says point blank. "Selling Champion was probably the biggest private sale of a horse in history, and I won't say it hasn't filled up the farm's coffers, but it's hardly the point."

"What is the point, Brad?" I ask tiredly, wanting to finally drop the topic. Brad just smiles.

"I'm not going to bother telling you, Griffen. You know what the point is."

"It wasn't a mistake to sell him," I say bluntly.

"I suppose we'll see in a few years, won't we?" he asks, and I sigh.

"It wouldn't even matter," I say after a moment. "What's done is done."

"It certainly is," he nods, and stares out at the night, looking at nothing.

In the following silence, all I can think about now is how ridiculous it is that Brad makes me feel ashamed. I can't allow myself to think removing Champion from Whitebrook was a mistake, and I won't punish myself for allowing a moment of weakness and for allowing Mike to feel angry that the whole thing could have been avoided. Despite these things, I can't help missing Champion. I've never told anyone that I recognize and even regret the void the rambunctious stallion left at Whitebrook. He's a part of Wonder I'll never get back, after all. I regret that more than all else.

I don't say this to Brad. I'm silent, waiting for him to say something.

"It's so strange how things turn out, isn't it?" he asks. I glance over at him, waiting for an explanation to a question I can't answer.

He shakes his head, as if wiping away that he'd ever said anything. "When does Mike think he'll be back?" he asks, voice hardening.

"After the Wood Memorial," I say. "End of the month at the earliest."

"You'll be okay in the meantime?"

"I've been okay since January, haven't I?" I ask. He gives me a sideways glance that's meant to tell me very explicitly that we both know that's not true. He doesn't get into it, and I'm glad because it's the last thing I want to get into. Sometimes I think it's better when people don't try to make me confront things, don't make me attempt to talk about everything, because it's too exhausting. It would simply be too much now.

"It's late," he announces, standing up. I straighten my spine, push my shoulders back, and look up at him. He stands on the second to bottom step, looking confused for a brief moment, like he's wondering why he was here in the first place. Then he lets his eyes fall on me, and I realize he needs his coat. I shrug it off my shoulders, pull the sleeves down my arms, and hand it out in front of me with a small smile of thanks. He reaches for it, leaning forward. His fingers brush mine lightly during the transfer and he stops for a second, frozen. I blink, surprised by this, and my smile wavers before dying on my face. Then the moment's gone.

"I'll be back tomorrow to look in on Princess," he says roughly, turning for his car. "Sometime tomorrow morning, I guess. Get some sleep, Ashleigh, we've got a lot of talking to do concerning that mare."

I nod, not thinking clearly enough to wish him good night or farewell. I can only watch him climb into the sleek sports car and fire up the engine. As soon as the car's taillights disappear on the main road, I stand up and find myself faced with the same decision that had me so panicked before I'd called Brad. I close my eyes, inhale the cool air, and tell myself to go inside.

As soon as I'm opening up the door, Maureen is hanging up the cordless in the kitchen. She's got all the lights on and I blink as my eyes adjust.

"Mike just called," she says, walking into the living room. "He said your cell phone was off and he'd call back tomorrow after the race."

"Oh," I say, both surprised that he only had that to say and that this is my only response. Maureen smiles, and then snags her coat off of the arm of the sofa.

"Christina never woke up," she informs me. "She sure sleeps like the dead, doesn't she?"

"Ever since she turned three," I say.

"How's Princess?" Maureen asks, and yet again I feel my chest tightening up at the mare's mention.

"She's fine," I say, letting out a breath and feeling the tension ease. "The baby was stillborn, but Princess is fine."

"Oh, Ash," Maureen sighs, and hugs me softly with one arm wrapped around my shoulders. "How horrible."

"She'll pull through," I say, not hugging Maureen back. I'm suddenly very tired, like my body's drooping around me and it's an effort to stand up.

"I'm sure she will," Maureen nods, and then thankfully lets me go. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ash."

"Sure, Maureen," I reply. "Thanks for sitting up with Christina."

"Any time," she says with a smile, and lets herself out the front door.

As soon as the door clicks closed, I turn off all the lights and stand in the dark for a moment, considering the state of things. For a moment I consider the image of Brad sitting on the front steps of the farmhouse, Christina pouting in her sundress, and Princess's reaction to her foal. I move my fingers over my abdomen softly, as though it's still tender to the touch, and then drop my hand to my side.

It is strange how things turn out, I think. Then I turn off the outside light and turn to the staircase, eager to finally fall asleep.


End file.
